


I Detest Such A God

by Dead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2013, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:35:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead/pseuds/Dead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kankri Vantas has been abandoned by everyone he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Detest Such A God

Kankri Vantas is alone.

He's roaming his hive currently, being not deceased as of yet. He isn't entirely sure where he wants to end up or what he wants to accomplish. As an example for all his friends, though, he's obligated to avoid wallowing in self-pity, or at least avoid acknowledging its presence- oh. He's forgotten momentarily several crucial details such as the absence of anyone observing him, the absence of anyone who would care anyway, and the absence of a single fuck to give.

He really has lost all concern for leading others astray with his unwholesome behavior. The feeling of apathy towards their opinions was all a bit novel the first few weeks of solitude. But this moment, the moment at which, were his existence a work of fiction, you would be "reading", marks the point at which he has let it go entirely. 

Kankri Vantas, he thinks now, once a respected and appreciated member of Beforan society. Now, a free man. He ponders this freedom for several hours, so many that one would almost suspect he was a little slow of mind. He would assure one that he is of perfectly sound mind and body, as he has always been and always will be.

He soon reaches the decision to masturbate to cure the appalling lull that's settled, temporarily, over his current state. He hasn't tried it in sweeps, due chiefly to the paranoia that someone else would always see. Being this rusty, he's uncertain what anyone thinks about when they "beat it", to borrow some incredibly raunchy and frankly problematic human slang. Sweet, naive Kankri. You're intelligent in an academic sense, but you just don't know anything about the real world. He eventually settles on the topic of how many fucking friends he's going to make tomorrow. He's been working on setting up a Skaianet connection for a few days, and he just knows he's only a few...computer appendages away from online interactions. He'll reemerge with a new online presence entirely, more virtuous, cleaner-cut even than his former self. His new disciple/companions will never have to know about these few days of seclusion and primitive self-indulgence. Being Kankri Vantas, former respectable citizen, he's said all of this out loud to himself, possibly being aroused by the high-pitched and nasally but seductive sound of his own voice the whole time, but at this thought he stops. He looks down at the pale grey writhing mass of flesh in his hands. Blinking, he slowly lifts them off of it. Previously erect tendrils gradually fall to their original positions, and the throbbing of the almost-white base of his genitalia winds down and it returns to a milky grey with the texture and shape of a raw chicken leg. Whatever a chicken is, Kankri is an alien and has thus never heard of them. Did you maybe mean a squawkbeast or something equally contrived? Regardless, he's beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, even if he denies them his whole life, his past actions could still affect him, and that they wouldn't just stop having occurred. He's starting to regret this decision.

Feeling a little unfairly robbed of this avenue of pleasure by his own morality, Kankri scans his respiteblock for anything else to distract him through the rest of this dreadfully dull day he's having. It's modestly furnished to the point of looking a little desolate, as any good hermit's block should be. The only things that aren't true necessities are a small stuffed crab from his childhood that he pretends he keeps forgetting to part with as a result of a deep apathy towards it rather than a sentimental weakness, and his nonfunctioning computer. And on second thought, it's a bit of an insult to his noble calling to classify the computer as anything less than a necessity. Feeling increasingly embarrassed looking at the crab, he shifts his attention to the computer and resolves to fix it today. Upon close inspection, he notices nothing more than that the screen is still pitch-black and that the subject still doesn't respond to stimuli like pressing buttons or moving the mouse. This is exactly as much data as he had gleaned yesterday, and the several days preceding it since its disrepair. The cause of it all was still a mystery to him, come to think of it. He'd tried everything- clicking, turning it on, shaking the monitor, apologizing and trying to coax it into action more gently. The computer's presence itself, really, had felt comforting to him because of what it represented, and now that it was nothing but a shell of its previous warm and useful self, his hourly inspections made him a little uncomfortable, and then as now the general unease prompted him to turn his back to it again, left with the same helpless frustration. This time he collapses into a fetal position under the computer desk, his frustration having been increased tenfold with every day of loneliness here. He glares at the stuffed toy, whose name is totally not something as juvenile as Mr. Crabs, and when his contempt elicits no response from the imitation crustacean, a shift of his body prompts a sudden burst of white heat. The small of his back is wrenched violently off the open electrical unit in reflex before he even realizes he's nearly been electrocuted. What the hell could have done that? There's a wire connected to what he presumes must be the local source of electricity, and the other half of this wire dangles from the monitor. (Briefly he wonders whether the internet is leaking into the air, but realizes that a thought like that is almost certainly evidence that he may be a little more naive than he admits.) Did he accidentally touch the severed wire when he turned? It seems to be the case. But how could he really be that oblivious as to go so long without noticing it'd been cut? In his defense, it was very hard to see unless you were looking for a cable that almost killed you, but still.  
What the fuck just happened, he wonders, out loud, naturally. The shaky countertenor of his voice, for once, does nothing to soothe him.


End file.
